This Indigested Vomit Of The Sea,fell To

Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run

Ye Country Comets, That Portend No War, Nor Prince's Funeral, Shining Unto No Higher End Than To Presage The Grasses Fall. . . .

Had It Lived Long, Is Would Have Been Lilies Without, Roses Within.

No White Nor Red Was Ever Seen So Am'rous As This Lovely Green. Fond Lovers, Cruel As Their Flame, Cut In These Trees Their Mistress' Name. Little, Alas, They Know Or Heed How Far These Beauties Hers Exceed! Fair Trees! Where S'e'er Your Barks I Wound, No Name Shall But Your Own Be Found.

My Vegetable Love Should Grow Vaster Than Empires, And More Slow.